


Bad Things Come In Twos

by not_who_we_are



Category: Haywire (2011), Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Assassin AU, Cherik - Freeform, Crossover, M/M, Paul is super aggressive, Post-Wanted, Pre-Haywire, Violence, cherik inspired, sexy fighting, too much xmfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_who_we_are/pseuds/not_who_we_are
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley's sure he wants Paul dead. He's not exactly sure what Paul wants from him.</p><p> </p><p>Tagged for xmfc because this pairing would never have entered my head if it wasn't for mcfassy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chase

**Author's Note:**

> After viewing both "Haywire" and "Wanted," a sexy assassin crossover AU just seemed like the thing to do.
> 
> This is movie Wesley and comic canon is nowhere in sight. My Paul was very much informed by [this](http://youtu.be/MOd_YYkHBak) interview with Michael Fassbender.  
> Title comes from the "Wanted" theme song "[All the Little Things](http://youtu.be/XgFAHVJKjkk)" by Danny Elfman.

Wesley was not the sort of man that would remain content receiving orders from a loom. Good thing he’d blown it up. He certainly had been that man—no longer. The Wesley of old was dead and gone.

He tugged on his jacket, the leather now buttery soft from near constant wear. He ran his fingers roughly through his chocolate brown hair and slipped on his sunglasses. Wesley was the picture of cool, calm, and control.

Wesley was a killer.

He had taken up near permanent residence in the unassuming black sedan. Biting down fiercely on his lower lip in intense concentration, Wesley flipped through the stack of papers for the 20th, 30th, 100th time. All his intel said Paul Last Name Unknown was somewhere in Dublin. Wesley has been in country for almost a week, and still, nothing. His contacts remained empty handed. His snitches were also tight-lipped. Wesley had administered several broken noses and head wounds to no avail, so there was a chance they really didn’t know anything. His target was good, but he was no ghost. He had a trail; he was somewhere. 

Wesley would find him.  
  
 *******  
  
Paul grinned wide and easy showing two rows of gleaming white, immaculately straight teeth. He leaned effortlessly against the solid oak bar leisurely swirling his whisky around a heavy-bottomed glass.

Paul wasn’t hiding. Exactly the opposite. If this boy was so eager to find him, well, here he was, enjoying a night on the town. He gulped down the remainder of his drink, tipping the glass toward the bartender, silently ordering his refill. Why, he could do this all night. And if he got bored, he was sure he’d have no problem finding some company. 

He wasn’t ignorant to the numerous glances cast in his direction as he had saddled up to the bar. His perfectly tailored suit accentuated his long, lean form. The dark fabric turned his eyes a stormy gray. He looked simply dangerous, as if prepared to eat his prey alive. It was his experience that people enjoyed being hunted. 

And of course, no one could resist his arrogance. 

He chuckled to himself again. Paul had heard this man, this “assassin,” was looking for him before he had even touched down in Ireland. He had been asking questions, rather loudly, yet still couldn’t seem to find little old Paul. He clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with.

If the novice didn’t see fit to step up the pace, Paul may very well have to go to him.  
  
 *******  
  
Two days earlier Wesley had finally gotten the break he was waiting for. He had ambled out to his car after a particularly awful night’s sleep to find a small piece of a paper wedged under the windshield wiper. Etched on it in perfect, all caps handwriting was the name of a rather upscale pub on the west side of town. Wesley had blinked stupidly at the scrap of paper that suddenly seemed almost too white as the sun bounced off it.

While he was acutely aware that this “lead” was discovered a little too conveniently, he wasn’t necessarily surprised. This was what he wanted, what he had been practically begging for. After unabashedly questioning, and re-questioning, anyone who would have any reason to be in contact with Paul, this was truly the best case scenario. 

Now sitting in his car, he held his heavy, silver-gripped firearm. The weight in his hand was comforting, reassuring, calming. After a few long, nearly breathless moments, he slipped it into its holster. His usually bright eyes now flashed with something darker. Wesley had no doubt the man would be at this bar. He would know him when he saw him. (He had spent hours studying the contours of his face in various blurry security photos.) In fact, he was sure he would be able to sense his mere presence in the space. 

Slipping out of the driver’s seat he stalked up to building. The artifice was unassuming and only boasted a single discreetly placed sign to announce its presence. Clearly this was even more posh and pretentious than he had previously thought.

Wesley glanced down at what had become his uniform: white t-shirt, jeans, well worn brown boots, and his leather coat. He shrugged to himself. He hoped Paul wouldn’t mind being murdered by someone dressed so casually.  
  
 *******  
  
Paul figured if he kept frequenting the same haunts his assassin would just stumble upon him. Obviously this boy—he was clearly nothing more than a boy—needed some help. 

It had taken Paul less than an hour to find out where this Wesley chap was staying. It was a dirty tenement house and the overly unassuming black sedan parked out front just screamed “I’m planning an assassination.” What a rank amateur. 

Paul had scratched the name of the ostentatious bar on a slip of paper and left it for the child. It was an invitation. A “come and get me” taunt, really. 

He knew he wouldn’t have been able to resist something so vulgar and unashamed. He was counting on the same from his man.

To Wesley’s credit though, Paul wouldn’t have been able to wait the two days.

If forced to articulate it, Paul couldn’t have explained what kind of person he expected to walk through the single, heavy, windowless door that night. But it certainly wasn’t anything like the one who did.

Wesley strode in, unflinching, even in the face of numerous judgmental patrons. Ladies were draped with pearls, clutching too tiny bags, and sipping obscenely priced champagne. The men sported smart looking suites accented with the sparkle and gleam of obviously expensive cufflinks and tiepins. Wesley looked like a dusty urban cowboy. 

Paul had observed his entrance from the corner of his eye. He knew his mark immediately, and he was sure the feeling was mutual as he nearly _felt_ electric blue eyes lock onto him. Paul was pleased that, without even so much as a pause, Wesley approached him. Or rather, the bar. Coy minx.  
  
 *******  
  
The only person in the room not staring at him was the lone patron seated at the bar, casually hovering over his drink. Even if Wesley hadn’t committed the man’s face to memory, he was being quite obvious.

So that confirmed his suspicions. Paul Last Name Unknown _knew_ Wesley. Most likely, the impeccably dressed man was the one who gave him this location. Not that any of this cat and mouse mattered, really. If anything, the new level of awareness from both men made things more interesting. 

Wesley draped himself over the bar ordering a scotch. The bartender dutifully poured him a glass and placed it in front of the out-of-place gentlemen with a sideways glance. 

Without looking Wesley could feel his target’s body turn slightly, eyes raking over him. He was sizing him up, and not being the least bit shy about it. So Wesley returned the favor, turning to face the seated man. 

His eyes climbed the length of Paul’s body. He was tall, much taller than himself, and lean. These are the things you can’t see in a pixilated black and white photo. Covertly collected intel could never tell you of your target’s stormy blue eyes, impossibly long limbs, and intense, predatory gaze. When their eyes finally met Wesley took a moment to collect himself.

Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as simple as he’d assumed.


	2. The Snare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "[Fresh Blood](http://youtu.be/K4Qp1TEKswQ)" by Eels was pretty much on a loop as I wrote this.

Paul languorously dragged his hand over his mouth, his eyes still locked on his target. The boy, and he had the face of a boy to be sure, simply stared back, a slight grin pulling at the coroner of his flushed lips. His face was pale and his features soft, but at the same time his jaw remained tightly set and angular. What a fascinating specimen. Paul, who remained seated on the plush barstool, kept his posture open. His legs were nearly splayed out before him, the fabric of his dark, pinstriped suit clinging to his outstretched limbs.

It was clear neither man was looking to speak first, yet the silence was not entirely uncomfortable. They shared the same space, positioned too close for strangers. And that’s because they weren’t, Paul thought. They were brothers now and they were locked together in a tragically beautiful dance. 

At that thought Paul held out his hand to Wesley and without hesitation he accepted it. Their fingers wound together in something more than a casual greeting. It was a silent understanding; an agreement; a beginning. 

“Paul,” Paul said simply, staring into the almost freakishly blue eyes boring into his. 

“Wesley,” the boyishly rugged hitman replied easily. 

Paul still didn’t stand, yet they were nearly at eyelevel, a fact that didn’t escape either one of them. It was Wesley that broke the physical contact first, and Paul relinquished his grasp rather unwillingly.

*******

As he loosened his grip and pulled back, Wesley’s conviction faltered slightly. 

Just slightly.

Without breaking eye contact both men took a long, deep drink from their glasses. Wesley’s eyes peered over the crystal lip as the liquid sloshed down his throat. It left a pleasant tingle in its wake. When they let the tumblers drop, Paul’s was nearly drained.

“I’m empty,” he cooed, raising a single finger towards the bartender, still not looking away from Wesley.

The deliberate intensity was becoming excruciating. While Paul’s face seemed an unwavering mask painted with cartoonish amusement, Wesley wasn’t as pleased. He wasn’t the sort to draw these things out. At least not like this.

For a moment his mind wandered. He allowed himself to consider Paul more closely. Wesley was no longer an agent for the arbitrary hand of fate. His targets all deserved to die. This was a fact; a well documented fact. But as Wesley sat, hand unmoving on his drink, a slight cloud of doubt… no, not doubt. It was something else, something familiar, which caused his thoughts to crystallize with the opposite of certainty. There was just something so odd coloring the tension that passed through the air between them. 

He motionlessly shook his head to clear it. Nothing positive would come from continuing down this path.

Paul seemed to like games. And while Wesley wasn’t the sporting type, there was something in the way the man stared, as if inviting him in. 

The bartender placed the fresh drink in front of him, and Paul swapped old for new without missing a beat. He moved to take another sip, but hesitated, lowering the glass away from his mouth just slightly. 

The words slipped from his lips like a trickle of warm honey, and Paul’s eyes, somehow, took on a more mischievous glow. “I have a private room in the back.” 

This wasn’t a request. It wasn’t an innocent offering of information either. It was simply the next step. 

Paul’s drink finally continued on its previously ordained path and the contents disappeared in one pull. The tumbler was placed back down on the bar with a heavy clunk that seemed louder to Wesley then it actually was. His senses buzzed and his ears pricked with anticipation. 

Paul took to his feet in one smooth motion, leaning forward a bit dramatically. As his face passed in front of Wesley’s he let out a low, steady breath. The warm air tickled Wesley’s cheek and the overwhelming scent of alcohol shocked his senses. 

He wondered absently how long Paul had been waiting for him.

*******

Taking the lead, as he was so often wont to do, Paul slid across the pub towards the heavy curtains separating the unseen back rooms. 

Wesley stayed a fair distance behind, most likely appraising him as he took the distance with long, easy strides. Knowing this, Paul was sure to imbue his steps with even more of his usual confidence and cockiness. He looked casually to his left, at nothing in particular, simply to allow the man behind him a view of his sharp profile. His jaw was set loose and his eyelids heavier than normal for this early hour.

Paul looked as though he were the poster child for relaxation. He was the picture of calm, cool, and control.

As he reached the fir green fabric draped across the door frame, he swept it aside in an inviting, almost regal motion. It was a silent cue for Wesley to step through, and ahead of Paul. 

Even if Wesley thought this was Paul’s play at gaining the upper hand, he knew Wesley wouldn’t hesitate at the threshold. Any pause would be viewed as overly-cautious weakness. The clash was imminent, and Paul hoped he had made it clear he was in no mood to rush things along with this nubile young thing. 

Where was the fun in that?

Paul stepped in behind Wesley letting the curtain swing closed on its own accord. Before them sat a round walnut table surrounded by four chairs. The space was dimly lit, and Paul could sense Wesley’s attempt to hide his visual scramble. His eyes darted around in an effort to take in the space as best he could in the low light.

Paul sat down wordlessly. He used his foot to nudge the chair directly across from him; yet another invitation. But Wesley just looked at it, not taking a seat, eyes moving from the furniture to the room’s far corners, and back to Paul. 

Paul allowed his smile to broaden just a bit. His sly grin slowly uncoiled, not unlike a serpent readying itself to strike. This boy has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, thought Paul with an inward smirk. He reclined in the chair, resisting the urge to open his body up further by placing his hands behind his head. That would be one invitation too many.

*******

The space was small, and intimate. At the most it could hold 20 people, and the table, comfortably. The pale glow of the single bulb enhanced the claustrophobic feel. 

Wesley was acutely aware of the other man’s numerous attempts to take control. But Paul wasn’t exactly seeking the upper hand; it seemed as though he was trying to be off-putting. 

This was Wesley’s life. This moment was all that propelled him towards the next moment. He felt a bit stung that Paul appeared to be underestimating him. Had he shown up in a waistcoat would he then have earned his respect? 

Wesley exhaled shaking the thought free. With grim acceptance he realized that Paul’s attempt to be off-putting was in and of itself off-putting. 

So here we are, thought Wesley, he’s in my head. 

And then he was again keenly aware of the silence. And the staring. And the jaw that seemed to clench and unclench, working in a distant rhythm. Instinctually, Wesley sat down. His eyes sought out the misty gray ones that peered across the hard wood expanse that separated them. 

Wesley stiffened. He remembered everything that had brought him to this point. He was no longer the fidgeting, insignificant asshole he once was. He had earned his station with blood, and pain, and sacrifice. And this pompous dick was _not_ going to rattle him.

As this fresh determination washed over him, causing his face to flush and his ears to pink, his hand began to slip slowly towards the gun tucked in his holster.

That is until he felt the pressure of fingertips wrapped around his wrist.


	3. The End

Paul might has well have been absent from the room.

The young man before him appeared to be having some kind of overwrought internal conflict. He could almost see the storm brewing behind his cloudy sapphire eyes. 

Paul wasn’t surprised when Wesley’s face contorted as he gripped his wrist. Clearly physical contact was the only way to hold the boy’s attention. 

“Aren’t you here to kill me?” Paul asked, almost disinterested.

His blunt inquiry was rewarded as Wesley had to fumble for a response. He finally settled on a nod. How eloquent, Paul mused, as he let go of the wrist. 

“Well, if sitting in silence, barely paying attention is your modus operandi, I applaud you on your fine work.”

Wesley shifted, finally regaining his footing. “Like your methods are any better. Do you plan on staring at me to death? Let me know how it turns out.” He released a soft scoff, and, for the umpteenth time, regained his resolve.

Feigning hurt, Paul purred back, “I just thought we’d have a little fun.” He kicked up his feet and placed them on one of the empty chairs, now effectively laid out. His body rippled under the well-tailored suit, muscles obviously taut. “Shall we order another round?”

Paul’s smile flickered wickedly, eyes again sweeping up and down the length of the other man. He knew he was making Wesley uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly his intention. This was in no way part of his master plan. It was just fun to see his “foe” fumble and cloud over under the heat of his gaze. 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, my friend,” Wesley shot back. 

It was a taunt, a challenge. He was finally attempting to match wits. He’s practically begging me to show him how sharp I am, Paul thought gleefully.

“Oh my boy, you have no _idea_ how high my tolerance is.” The words escaped his mouth as he slowly shook his head, punctuating every word with the twist of his neck. “Let me show you.”

*******

Wesley had always been sort of a wiseass, though he’d been making and effort to tone it down. Delivering sarcastic quips before blowing someone’s brains out is pretty cliché after all. So why then was he sitting in a darkened room having a catty interlude with his target?

His hand was a scant few inches from his gun. He could paint the walls with blood before Paul uttered another word. But he didn’t. He chose to imply the man was drunk. 

What was he doing?

While Paul’s words had the quality of a threat, there was little malice behind them. They sounded more like a breathy promise than anything else. He stretched back in his chair again, legs still propped up. He let his head loll back just a bit, exposing the tender skin under his jaw. It was as if Paul wanted to meet his end in the musty backroom of a swanky pub in Ireland. 

This thought made Wesley more impatient. He twined his fingers around the revolver and pulled it to freedom. As it hung in the air, it seemed larger than usual while occupying the tight space between the two men. 

Paul repositioned his head, pulled his feet off the chair, and sat up as if his spine had become a metal rod. He has been waiting for this. Asking for it even. 

Paul was hyper-aware, as Wesley knew he would be. But that shouldn’t have mattered. Cat-like reflexes or not, Wesley should have fired his shot off before Paul had caught the gleam of the shiny barrel. 

Wesley felt as if his arm were locked, his trigger finger turned to stone. Paul reached forward, slowly, but with no less confidence, and pushed the gun aside. As he did his fingers brushed lightly, almost teasingly, across the clammy flesh of Wesley’s hand. 

Wesley allowed the gun and his hand to be gently guided to the table. The look in Paul’s eyes was hypnotic and Wesley felt trapped as his weapon hit the table with a light clunk. 

Paul’s hand remained, pinning Wesley’s between the object and the wood. But he was not using his strength to do it. 

Wesley felt more trapped by the man’s gaze than by his hand; although the light stroking of fingertips across his knuckles was nothing short of shocking. 

“Are you… are you flirting with me?” Wesley managed to choke out.

At this Paul gave a small chuckle, his eyes crinkling in amusment. Face still colored with curiosity and anticipation, he leaned in further. He removed his fingers from Wesley’s hand and dragged the gun away as he pulled his arm back.

“These ones are always my favorite,” Paul said, an air of nostalgia coloring his tone. “I’m can’t decide whether I want to fuck you, or kill you.”

And as Wesley’s mouth dropped open, Paul’s fist reared back. He was caught too off guard to defend himself as Paul landed a punch to his jaw so forceful that Wesley’s chair tipped backwards.

Wesley lay on his back, momentarily stunned, staring up at the ceiling. And while it was the punch that had began his ears ringing, the man’s words soon joined in the sound.

*******

Paul was on his feet and hovering over the boy in seconds. If he hadn’t caught Wesley off guard, the punch wouldn’t have been so effective. He had to say, the boy was built solid. But his well-timed admission had been just that—well-timed—and he had the advantage.

Paul was a bit spoiled.

Practically straddling Wesley’s hips, Paul began striking the other man mercilessly with his fists; landing blow after blow to Wesley’s ever-darkening face. Paul knew it was only a matter of time before he regained his wits and began striking back. He couldn’t wait.

Thankfully, Wesley came back to life rather quickly raising a knee up and into Paul’s groin, throwing him off. 

Paul stumbled back, momentarily struck with pain, but never leaving his feet. He looked up just in time to see Wesley wiping away dark crimson blood from his split, puffy lips. 

“Oh darling, you look lovely,” he growled out as he rushed forward, tackling Wesley and pinning him to the wall.

Wesley’s fists flew up and he landed rapid blows to Paul’s abdomen, leaving him doubled over. He brought his knee up and it cracked as it made contact with Paul’s chin, causing his head to whip violently back, his body following suit. 

While he lay on the floor, Paul wiggled out of his suit jacket, the white shirt underneath was already stained with perspiration. A tight smile played on his lips. 

“I knew you’d be fun, Wesley,” he mused even as his erratic breath still hitched in his throat. 

Wesley took the brief pause to remove his jacket. Paul figured he hadn’t foreseen this getting too physical. The boy was no slouch when it came to fisticuffs, but it was obvious Wesley preferred the cold steel of his gun.

This was so much more intimate. 

Paul tentatively took to one knee, still looking a bit shaken. He waited until Wesley began to move forward. It took too long; the lad was clearly holding back. Paul planted his foot and used the angle to launch forward into an immediate run. There was little distance to close and the men were instantly locked together.

Paul’s arms wrapped around Wesley’s torso as the other man scrabbled at his head, neck, shoulders, or anything else within his limited reach. Paul relished this closeness; the heat of a foreign body, the rising musk of sweat, the strain of sinewy muscle, it was intoxicating.

Wesley was able to sweep Paul’s leg from underneath him, bringing him to the hard poured concrete floor. He sat on Paul’s chest, pulling his fists back insistently to land alternating punches. His fists hit cheek, neck, nose; Wesley wasn’t discriminating. 

“Why”  
*punch*  
“Did”  
*punch*  
“You”  
*punch*  
“Have to”  
*punch*  
“FUCK WITH MY HEAD?”

Wesley roared and pulled back too far, giving Paul room to slide out from underneath the raging body. He kicked out purposefully, both feet landing smack in the center of Wesley’s chest.

The boy flew back, the weight of his head propelling him. The back of his skull hit the floor first. Paul knew the moment he heard the sickening crunch that it was over.

He crawled over to where Wesley lay stunned, but breathing. Both men were out of breath, but Wesley’s pants were certainly more frantic. Paul leaned over him, aware of the blood seeping from underneath the tangled mess of hair. 

Paul’s face was bloodied, nose obviously broken. Maybe even some ribs, he thought distantly as he stared down at his assassin. 

“I’m sorry this had to end so quickly. I did have a nice slice of time carved out for us. Alas…”

Paul trailed off, reaching over Wesley’s body to grope for something. When his hand appeared again in front of Wesley’s glassy eyes, Paul thought he heard the boy let out a low rumble.

Paul moved back just enough to press Wesley’s gun to his temple. When Wesley didn’t move, Paul was certain the man was as good as dead anyway. He huffed, sulking at the anticlimactic turn this was taking. On his next intake of breath, he pulled the trigger.

Paul stood with little effort, retrieved his jacket, and pulled back the curtain to exit. He didn’t look back to see the wall streaked with red, or the lifeless lump whose presence somehow managed to make the small space seem even smaller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have to stop killing ~~Charles~~ characters.
> 
> The sexual tension was inspired by Paul and Mallory's walk to their hotel room before their big tussle (arguably the best in the film). The way they interact is almost flirtatious, and you aren't really sure if they are going to fight, or, well, fuck.
> 
> I highly recommend both "Wanted" and "Haywire" if you haven't seen them. While I could go on for hours about the flaws in the latter, it's still worth watching. Fassbender does a tremendous job with Paul, even though the character is a small blip on the film's radar.


End file.
